


Sins of the Flesh

by trascendenza



Category: Brimstone
Genre: Community: slashfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-10
Updated: 2007-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:09:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Sleep, Zeke is annoyed to realize, doesn't come that easily to the damned.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sins of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for slashfest, for lonelywalker's prompt.

Sleep, Zeke is annoyed to realize, doesn't come that easily to the damned.

Alive, he slept like a rock—Ros used to tease him about it, saying that if they were ever burgled she'd have to be the one to take care of it. After fifteen years of endless, and notably _sleepless_ tortures, he'd really been looking forward to a good night's sleep.

But his body isn't cooperating. He's fluffed his pillow, stuffed another one between his legs, open and shut the shades hoping that would help. Warm milk didn't do the trick, either, and has left a sour taste in his mouth.

It's really strange, being alive again. Curling up in a bed was something he'd held onto, one of those little things that had kept him going, and now here he is, actually doing it. Surreality doesn't even begin to cover it.

He flops onto his back and sighs gustily.

"Is this your doing?" He queries to his room, seemingly empty. But he's guessing that's only to the naked eye. "You can't even let me get a good night's sleep?"

He sighs again, closes his eyes, but as soon as he does so, a warm weight presses down against him. And there's an elbow digging into his chest.

"So quick to jump to conclusions, Ezekiel. You seem to have the strange notion that I have nothing better to do with my time than lay in wait and devise new ways to torture you—which, granted, I do quite enjoy, particularly on a sunny day—but I am a very busy man. Lambs to lead astray, sinners to punish, angels to tempt. Do you really think I devote any more time to your foolishness than absolutely necessary?"

Zeke grudgingly opens his eyes. Sure enough, Lucifer has an elbow digging into his breastbone, and he's—well. He's being straddled. By the Devil.

Some days, it really pays not to get into bed.

"Then why are you here now?" Zeke counters.

"Why, to watch the fun, of course."

Zeke's eyes narrow; he knows that playful expression he sees flash across Lucifer's face. It does not bode well. "What fun?"

Lucifer smiles his frightening smile. "That's for me to know and you to—"

There's a knock on the door.

"—find out."

Lucifer vanishes.

"Christ," Zeke mutters, tossing the blanket to the side. Now he may as well just stay up until dawn. He doesn't bother putting on a shirt or asking who's at the door; he just grabs his gun and slips his finger into trigger position. Any surprise that excites Lucifer is one he's not going to give the benefit of the doubt.

He swings the door open and lowers the gun when he sees Officer Kane on the other side, who threw his hands up as soon as he saw the weapon leveled at him.

"Sorry—I shouldn't have come—" He backs up a few steps, still holding up his arms in placation.

Zeke leans against the doorway and gives him a look. "No, I'm sorry—I thought you were… I thought you might be an unwelcome visitor."

Kane nods, pretends this makes sense, and lowers his arms slowly. He sticks them into the pockets of his trenchcoat, looking awkward and imploring at the same time.

"I couldn't sleep."

Zeke leans back. "Me neither. Come on in."

"How was the funeral?" Zeke asks once Kane is seated on the couch, rummaging around the kitchen to get some coffee going. Sniffing the stale grounds, he muses that there's something pathetic about brewing coffee at four a.m.

"Nice. Well, nice as a funeral can be, I suppose."

"He seemed like a good cop." Zeke pours the water in and goes to sit beside Kane on the couch. He briefly ponders putting pants or a shirt on, but he just can't muster up the energy, and it's not like Kane hasn't already seen what the tattoos mean.

"One of the best." Kane fiddles with his hands, looking down. "I think you woulda liked him."

"If there was anything I could've done for him—"

"No, I know. I saw how strong the bastard was, remember?" Kane looks in Zeke's direction, not quite meeting his eyes, and he wonders if maybe a shirt wouldn't have been a good idea. "You saved my life, back there. That guy woulda killed me for sure."

"Just doing my job." Zeke notes how Kane's eyes are fixated on the names of the damned across his chest.

"Thought you said your job was to kill 'em. Nothing in there about saving people."

At that, Zeke has to smile. "Being dead doesn't make me any less of a cop."

Kane meets his eyes. "Yeah. That makes all of this less scary." Kane scoots forward a little, bringing one of his knees up onto the couch. "You got those tattoos everywhere?"

Zeke hears the coffee finish, but doesn't get up.

"Yep."

"Huh."

Zeke lets his arm come up to rest against the back of the couch. "One hundred thirteen names. Well, one hundred and twelve, now."

Kane leans down to examine Zeke's bicep, scribed with four symbols. "Hey, you mind if I…?"

Zeke ignores what sounds like a faint devilish snicker in his ear.

"Be my guest."

Kane's fingers barely graze his skin; Zeke hardly feels a thing.

_Let's have a little fun, shall we?_ whispers a voice that he suspects only he can hear, and suddenly, Kane's fingers feel… real. Warm.

"Shit," he breathes, clamping his hand on Kane's wrist and stilling the movement.

"Sorry—" Kane starts apologizing again, but Zeke laughs. Loudly, like he hasn't laughed in fifteen years.

"I just… I need a second." Zeke takes a deep breath. "Haven't been touched in a long time."

Kane's face, very close to Zeke's now, doesn't look at all pitying. "Yeah?" He says, tongue darting out over his lips. "Too long?" He slowly, slowly traces a circle on Zeke's arm.

Zeke can't answer; he feels slightly light-headed, light-headed at the sensitivity in his own palm as he slides it down Kane's arm, at the rough texture of Kane's knuckles against his shoulder and then his neck.

"Good cop like you," Kane's breath feels warm on his cheeks, "didn't deserve such a bad rap." Kane's other hand comes to rest on Zeke's thigh, kneading gently.

_You'd like to believe him, wouldn't you, Ezekiel?_

Zeke grabs Kane by the back of the neck and kisses him, drowning out the teasing laughter at the edges of his consciousness. But even then, he can feel a malignant presence hovering behind his back, and it drives him closer to Kane; his hands go under the trench coat, clumsily unbutton Kane's dress shirt. And what begins as a way to escape—as a way to remember what he'd lost—begins turning into more.

Kane doesn't kiss at all like he talks. He's confident as he surges against Zeke, even aggressive, and _God_, Zeke needed this; he needed it so much.

Somehow, he wrestles Kane out of his jacket and shirt, and climbs onto Kane's lap, straddling him. Kane's thumbs curl up behind Zeke's ears as they kiss, holding him tight, and clenching _hard_ when Zeke palms the erection pressing up against Kane's khakis.

_Yes, that's it. That's what I like to see. Sins of the flesh—my personal favorite of the bunch._

He hears Kane struggling to breathe, and breaks the kiss; he forgets about things like breathing when he's not paying attention.

"Geeze." Kane runs his hands down Zeke's chest, fingers fluttering over contours of muscle and bone. "You're so warm."

Zeke smiles. "You don't know the half of it," he says, standing up. He yanks Kane's pants off, and strips out of his boxers without a second's hesitation—all his bashfulness was burned out long ago.

And, really, he isn't all that surprised to see a bottle of lube that he never bought on the coffee table. Dropping down, he flips the lid on it and has his hand slick around Kane's cock before his knees have hit the ground. Slightly supernatural speed does have its advantages.

_Hurt him a little. I guarantee you—he'll enjoy it._

Zeke ignores that suggestion, instead watching how Kane's neck works as he pumps his hand; even though he's sure the lubrication is adequate, he's enjoying himself. Kane is strangling out unintelligible sounds, his hips jerking with each downstroke—there's something beautiful about seeing pleasure on the face of someone he's touching.

"Stone… you keep that up much longer…" Kane bites his lip.

_You could have him. You could impale him on that damned cock of yours and tear him apart._

Zeke, with a last swirl of his thumb, removes his hand, and stands up again.

"You're gonna have to help me," he says, and without further preamble, sits in Kane's lap. Kane's hand comes onto his hip, steadying him, and he gasps when the length of Kane's cock presses up against him; it seems like now that his blood has started flowing again, now that his skin remembers how to feel, it's not inclined to stop. Which suits Zeke just fine.

Kane slides into him with what would be classified as excruciating slowness if it didn't feel so damn good.

"Jesus Christ, Stone." Kane bites into the spot where Zeke's neck meets his shoulder; Zeke braces his hands on the couch and bears down.

And then a pair of hands that are _not_ Kane's—because Kane's hands are very definitely gripped onto his hips—start moving up Zeke's thighs. They burn like familiarity and if his skin weren't unnaturally impenetrable, the nails would scratch him. A hot mouth descends on his cock, full of curling flames that should be painful, but they're not—they leave Zeke writhing and moving faster and faster against Kane. Kane's touching him everywhere and that _mouth_—Zeke tries not to think about whom it belongs to—engulfs him in unbearable sensation.

He comes trembling against Kane, screaming a name that belongs to no man.


End file.
